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| Downtown Milwaukee prepares for the filming of the new "Blues Brothers" movie sequel [photo credit: @danteswardrobe] |
10 years ago
Showing posts with label Milwaukee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Milwaukee. Show all posts
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Blues Brothers 2015
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Whither the Bee?
I finished a book last night! And the crowd goes crazy!
This is not news, but you should see my reading pile. My backlog has grown to a height that would cause my mountain-climbing sister to pause before considering a summit attempt. Parental pass-alongs, estate sales, library sales, and Goodwill stores are all my undoing, as is that evil American Council of the Blind thrift store in West Allis. Boswell Book Company on N. Downer Street suckers me in with author talks by the likes of Craig Thompson and John Scalzi; I may sneak out without a $24.95 autographed hardcover in hand, but the pesky bargain shelf ambushes me on the way to the door. Curiosity killed the cat, but it's burying me alive.
You'd think, then, that when I finish an amiable read like Samantha Bee's I Know I Am, But What Are You, I would instantly fling it back through the portal into the ocean of resale print whence it came, the better to make room for its successors. However, I'm a cheapskate. If I've spent 50 or 89 cents on a volume of inspirationally snarky personal essays for which, in an earlier, pre-abundance era, I might have shelled out $2.98 plus $3.49 shipping from the Edward R. Hamilton catalog, it feels like I've turned a profit.
What to do, then, with this exemplar of the epistolary, this Woodstock of wit? I resell some medium-priced books on Amazon.com, but few popular titles sell for more than a literal penny. Giving the book to my sister-in-law, who earlier had giggle-snorted her way through David Sedaris despite her Christian upbringing, would be an option; but with Ms. Bee's chapter on rude characters who expose themselves to the author on a recurring basis as if she were a perv magnet, this seems unwise. That's before we even get to her confession of releasing a psychopathic, rapist guinea pig into her basement with the cats.
I decided at last to stage a ninja attack under cover of darkness and donate the book to one of the Little Free Libraries that have sprouted in our city, and many others, in recent months. As my Beloved Spousal Unit has described in her blog, Dante's Wardrobe, the Little Free Library movement is a casually organized community resource provided by private citizens for the benefit of their neighbors and neighborhood. It's a friendly sharing of books over the back fence, only the back fence is now on a prominent street corner. The collection is a bit spotty, but you've got to love the due date. It is possible, Dear Reader, that one or two items from our local giveaway spots may have found their way back into our home, adding to my personal Magic Mountain. Oh, what foul cruelty Fortuna has spun to me today!
Samantha Bee, her guinea pig, and her murderous cats are now lurking inside the box at N. 52nd and W. Vine, waiting to pounce on a curious, bypassing pedestrian. Neighbors, be forewarned!
This is not news, but you should see my reading pile. My backlog has grown to a height that would cause my mountain-climbing sister to pause before considering a summit attempt. Parental pass-alongs, estate sales, library sales, and Goodwill stores are all my undoing, as is that evil American Council of the Blind thrift store in West Allis. Boswell Book Company on N. Downer Street suckers me in with author talks by the likes of Craig Thompson and John Scalzi; I may sneak out without a $24.95 autographed hardcover in hand, but the pesky bargain shelf ambushes me on the way to the door. Curiosity killed the cat, but it's burying me alive.
You'd think, then, that when I finish an amiable read like Samantha Bee's I Know I Am, But What Are You, I would instantly fling it back through the portal into the ocean of resale print whence it came, the better to make room for its successors. However, I'm a cheapskate. If I've spent 50 or 89 cents on a volume of inspirationally snarky personal essays for which, in an earlier, pre-abundance era, I might have shelled out $2.98 plus $3.49 shipping from the Edward R. Hamilton catalog, it feels like I've turned a profit.
What to do, then, with this exemplar of the epistolary, this Woodstock of wit? I resell some medium-priced books on Amazon.com, but few popular titles sell for more than a literal penny. Giving the book to my sister-in-law, who earlier had giggle-snorted her way through David Sedaris despite her Christian upbringing, would be an option; but with Ms. Bee's chapter on rude characters who expose themselves to the author on a recurring basis as if she were a perv magnet, this seems unwise. That's before we even get to her confession of releasing a psychopathic, rapist guinea pig into her basement with the cats.
I decided at last to stage a ninja attack under cover of darkness and donate the book to one of the Little Free Libraries that have sprouted in our city, and many others, in recent months. As my Beloved Spousal Unit has described in her blog, Dante's Wardrobe, the Little Free Library movement is a casually organized community resource provided by private citizens for the benefit of their neighbors and neighborhood. It's a friendly sharing of books over the back fence, only the back fence is now on a prominent street corner. The collection is a bit spotty, but you've got to love the due date. It is possible, Dear Reader, that one or two items from our local giveaway spots may have found their way back into our home, adding to my personal Magic Mountain. Oh, what foul cruelty Fortuna has spun to me today!
Samantha Bee, her guinea pig, and her murderous cats are now lurking inside the box at N. 52nd and W. Vine, waiting to pounce on a curious, bypassing pedestrian. Neighbors, be forewarned!
Friday, October 7, 2011
Blissful Anticipation
In less than four hours, as I write this, the Milwaukee Brewers will play Game 5 of their National League Division Series against the Arizona Diamondbacks.
At this moment, all things are possible.
The Brewers could win the game. Starter Yovani Gallardo, continuing a winning streak that includes NLDS Game 1, could go seven strong with eight strikeouts, giving up only two runs, and use his uncommon hitting prowess to add a two-bagger at the plate. Slugger Prince Fielder could knock the stitches out of an Ian Kennedy fastball, driving in Ryan Braun and Corey Hart. Later, Nyjer Morgan could execute a competent safety squeeze in the sixth on a 2-1 count, one of the Brewers' tried-and-true plays, to score Jonathan Lucroy from third after Hart's second hit of the game. Utility man-cum-starter Jerry Hairston, Jr. could drive in a pair in the seventh with a solid hit the other way. Manager Ron Roenicke could then turn the game over to his pair of ace closers, Francisco Rodriguez and John Axford -- thanks, front office! -- and the Brewers could proceed with happy, laughing relief to the next round. The team's other ace, Zack Greinke, could take the hill for the Brew Crew in Game 1 of the NL Championship Series. A few breaks against the Phillies or Cardinals, and they truly could go all the way to the World Series for only the second time in franchise history.
The Brewers could lose the game. Gallardo could give up a two-run homer in the second inning and a solo shot in the third. The Brewers' hitters could struggle against the Diamondbacks' ace, who is 21-4 this season. In the sixth inning, with Kennedy finally showing some wildness and walking his second batter to load the bases with two outs, Yuniesky Betancourt could execute his favorite play and pop out on the first pitch. Rickie Weeks could miss a potential game-tying home run by three feet in the eighth, and none of the Brewers' pinch-hitters and role players could solve Arizona's average bullpen. Next year's fresh hope at third base, rookie Taylor Green, could be called upon for the final at-bat of the season ahead of Casey McGehee, whose plummeting performance this season left huge gaping holes in the lower half of the order. Or, Milwaukee-area native Craig Counsell could take the final curtain call of his career and tease the fans with a would-be gapper, only to have some speedy replacement outfielder lay out for the catch. The players then would walk around in mild shock, give monotone interviews to beat reporters and television analysts, and proceed like zombies toward their waiting families and flights home, wherever home is.
Or, as we know from "Bull Durham", it could rain. Unlike the $1.5 billion Yankee Stadium, however, Miller Park has a roof. Plus, it's a gloriously sunny day in Milwaukee today. October baseball will be played.
The crystal ball is fuzzy, the permutations and combinations are nearly infinite, but the general outline of an elimination game is always the same. It's one and done for somebody; one and onward for the other guys. The next six hours will reveal all.
Is this great, or what?
At this moment, all things are possible.
The Brewers could win the game. Starter Yovani Gallardo, continuing a winning streak that includes NLDS Game 1, could go seven strong with eight strikeouts, giving up only two runs, and use his uncommon hitting prowess to add a two-bagger at the plate. Slugger Prince Fielder could knock the stitches out of an Ian Kennedy fastball, driving in Ryan Braun and Corey Hart. Later, Nyjer Morgan could execute a competent safety squeeze in the sixth on a 2-1 count, one of the Brewers' tried-and-true plays, to score Jonathan Lucroy from third after Hart's second hit of the game. Utility man-cum-starter Jerry Hairston, Jr. could drive in a pair in the seventh with a solid hit the other way. Manager Ron Roenicke could then turn the game over to his pair of ace closers, Francisco Rodriguez and John Axford -- thanks, front office! -- and the Brewers could proceed with happy, laughing relief to the next round. The team's other ace, Zack Greinke, could take the hill for the Brew Crew in Game 1 of the NL Championship Series. A few breaks against the Phillies or Cardinals, and they truly could go all the way to the World Series for only the second time in franchise history.
The Brewers could lose the game. Gallardo could give up a two-run homer in the second inning and a solo shot in the third. The Brewers' hitters could struggle against the Diamondbacks' ace, who is 21-4 this season. In the sixth inning, with Kennedy finally showing some wildness and walking his second batter to load the bases with two outs, Yuniesky Betancourt could execute his favorite play and pop out on the first pitch. Rickie Weeks could miss a potential game-tying home run by three feet in the eighth, and none of the Brewers' pinch-hitters and role players could solve Arizona's average bullpen. Next year's fresh hope at third base, rookie Taylor Green, could be called upon for the final at-bat of the season ahead of Casey McGehee, whose plummeting performance this season left huge gaping holes in the lower half of the order. Or, Milwaukee-area native Craig Counsell could take the final curtain call of his career and tease the fans with a would-be gapper, only to have some speedy replacement outfielder lay out for the catch. The players then would walk around in mild shock, give monotone interviews to beat reporters and television analysts, and proceed like zombies toward their waiting families and flights home, wherever home is.
Or, as we know from "Bull Durham", it could rain. Unlike the $1.5 billion Yankee Stadium, however, Miller Park has a roof. Plus, it's a gloriously sunny day in Milwaukee today. October baseball will be played.
The crystal ball is fuzzy, the permutations and combinations are nearly infinite, but the general outline of an elimination game is always the same. It's one and done for somebody; one and onward for the other guys. The next six hours will reveal all.
Is this great, or what?
Sunday, September 11, 2011
A Special Sunday at Miller Park
Whenever I go to Miller Park for a Brewers game, I glance around the tailgating crowd in the parking lot and the pre-game crowd milling around the concourses to see if I know anyone. I rarely do.
My Beloved Spousal Unit and I know most of the Brewers’ players on the field by sight, of course, as well as the manager, the coaches, maybe half of the opposition, one or two of the umpires. From our perch in the Terrace Level, we can see the radio booth and catch a glimpse of Bob Uecker or Cory Provus calling the game, and Bernie Brewer in his chalet, and the Racing Sausages, and the right field ballgirl with the terrific throwing arm. We take note when Faux Paul, my late brother-in-law’s doppelganger, is in his customary seat next to the Brewers’ dugout. We give a nod to the old-timers who man the stadium parking lots on the way in and the saxophone-torturing busker on the way out.
We also recognize a half-dozen regular Terrace Box denizens. Talk Your Ears Off and Son Of Talk Your Ears Off sit behind us and narrate loudly during every pitch and every interval between pitches in great, gory detail and imagine that this is a public service welcomed by their neighbors. There’s Zoom Lens Couple, who’ve never seen a live ballgame except through his-and-her rangefinders. Looks Like Billionaire County Executive sits on the other side of the Zoom Lenses and is a congenial chap, despite not being a billionaire. (We think.) Radio Headset Man, sitting over the portal, may look a bit stoned, but he’s managed to locate the stadium’s low-power FM frequency for the radio broadcast of the game, and that’s an accomplishment that’s eluded us.
In the communal sense, though, we hardly ever see a neighbor, or someone we work with, or someone else from around town that we know. Our encounters at the ballpark are largely transactional rather than social. Our relationship is with the whole scenario rather than the specific actors.
Today, however, was different. In a sense, we knew everyone at the game today: Brewers fans, Phillies fans, locals, sports tourists from afar. On this 10th anniversary of the horrific events of September 11, 2001, everyone in attendance was in reflective communion. We’ve all had a shared experience, one that exceeded our prior imagination, a nightmare that we can barely fathom to this day.
The sea of blue jerseys and t-shirts and caps that Brewers fans wear in common were merely a cover today; the real solidarity, the reason every pre-game step toward the sports cathedral seemed meaningful, the reason it felt almost tearfully good to see the green grass and diamond of dirt as we emerged from the portal into the sunlight, was that these steps shadowed the shell-shocked steps we took nearly ten years ago in this same venue, when we first resumed attending baseball games to try to chase the shock and numbness away.
The game itself was a festival of seriousness and silliness, both real and symbolic, full of inspiring plays and errors, two-base hits and strikeouts, patriotic songs and sausage races. Does it matter who won? Absolutely, it does! The Brewers are in a divisional race, and if divisional races matter in peacetime, they do so even more in times of peril and anxiety, when we need their distraction the most. So I’m happy to report that the Brew Crew salvaged the last game of the four-game set with Philadelphia, winning 3-2. Blue-clad fans breathed a sigh of relief when Corey Hart, Nyjer Morgan, and Ryan Braun finally delivered clutch hits, scarce commodities of late, in the late innings. Yovani Gallardo whiffed twelve batters while going seven strong, and closer John Axford allowed two batters to reach before completing yet another anxious, perilous save. The "magic number" for the Brewers to clinch the NL Central crown, their first divisional title in nearly three decades, is now ten, with a mere fourteen games to play.
Moreover, the chicken curry in fish sauce that my Beloved Spousal Unit conjured up for our pre-game picnic was delicious -– and our creative cuisine was the envy of the tailgating families to our left and right! All in all, a perfect Sunday afternoon in September, despite the somber occasion. Or perhaps, with deliberate intention, because of it.
My only regret about this memorable day, apart from our inability to tune into the radio broadcast and tune out the bozo behind us, is that we once again didn’t see anyone we know personally at the ballpark. Maybe next time I’ll bring a camera along and ask our Terrace Box neighbors for their expert advice on buying a zoom lens. It might be time for a new resolution.
My Beloved Spousal Unit and I know most of the Brewers’ players on the field by sight, of course, as well as the manager, the coaches, maybe half of the opposition, one or two of the umpires. From our perch in the Terrace Level, we can see the radio booth and catch a glimpse of Bob Uecker or Cory Provus calling the game, and Bernie Brewer in his chalet, and the Racing Sausages, and the right field ballgirl with the terrific throwing arm. We take note when Faux Paul, my late brother-in-law’s doppelganger, is in his customary seat next to the Brewers’ dugout. We give a nod to the old-timers who man the stadium parking lots on the way in and the saxophone-torturing busker on the way out.
We also recognize a half-dozen regular Terrace Box denizens. Talk Your Ears Off and Son Of Talk Your Ears Off sit behind us and narrate loudly during every pitch and every interval between pitches in great, gory detail and imagine that this is a public service welcomed by their neighbors. There’s Zoom Lens Couple, who’ve never seen a live ballgame except through his-and-her rangefinders. Looks Like Billionaire County Executive sits on the other side of the Zoom Lenses and is a congenial chap, despite not being a billionaire. (We think.) Radio Headset Man, sitting over the portal, may look a bit stoned, but he’s managed to locate the stadium’s low-power FM frequency for the radio broadcast of the game, and that’s an accomplishment that’s eluded us.
In the communal sense, though, we hardly ever see a neighbor, or someone we work with, or someone else from around town that we know. Our encounters at the ballpark are largely transactional rather than social. Our relationship is with the whole scenario rather than the specific actors.
Today, however, was different. In a sense, we knew everyone at the game today: Brewers fans, Phillies fans, locals, sports tourists from afar. On this 10th anniversary of the horrific events of September 11, 2001, everyone in attendance was in reflective communion. We’ve all had a shared experience, one that exceeded our prior imagination, a nightmare that we can barely fathom to this day.
The sea of blue jerseys and t-shirts and caps that Brewers fans wear in common were merely a cover today; the real solidarity, the reason every pre-game step toward the sports cathedral seemed meaningful, the reason it felt almost tearfully good to see the green grass and diamond of dirt as we emerged from the portal into the sunlight, was that these steps shadowed the shell-shocked steps we took nearly ten years ago in this same venue, when we first resumed attending baseball games to try to chase the shock and numbness away.
The game itself was a festival of seriousness and silliness, both real and symbolic, full of inspiring plays and errors, two-base hits and strikeouts, patriotic songs and sausage races. Does it matter who won? Absolutely, it does! The Brewers are in a divisional race, and if divisional races matter in peacetime, they do so even more in times of peril and anxiety, when we need their distraction the most. So I’m happy to report that the Brew Crew salvaged the last game of the four-game set with Philadelphia, winning 3-2. Blue-clad fans breathed a sigh of relief when Corey Hart, Nyjer Morgan, and Ryan Braun finally delivered clutch hits, scarce commodities of late, in the late innings. Yovani Gallardo whiffed twelve batters while going seven strong, and closer John Axford allowed two batters to reach before completing yet another anxious, perilous save. The "magic number" for the Brewers to clinch the NL Central crown, their first divisional title in nearly three decades, is now ten, with a mere fourteen games to play.
Moreover, the chicken curry in fish sauce that my Beloved Spousal Unit conjured up for our pre-game picnic was delicious -– and our creative cuisine was the envy of the tailgating families to our left and right! All in all, a perfect Sunday afternoon in September, despite the somber occasion. Or perhaps, with deliberate intention, because of it.
My only regret about this memorable day, apart from our inability to tune into the radio broadcast and tune out the bozo behind us, is that we once again didn’t see anyone we know personally at the ballpark. Maybe next time I’ll bring a camera along and ask our Terrace Box neighbors for their expert advice on buying a zoom lens. It might be time for a new resolution.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Ghost Racers of the Ninja Apocalypse
That distinctive screaming, whirring, movie-sound-effects noise filling the air this weekend emanates from the Milwaukee Mile at State Fair Park, where the Milwaukee 225 IndyCar Series race is being run. It's kind of cool, actually, and so is the knowledge that it will go away later today.
Running errands yesterday in The Silver Zloty -- there was an old radio ad in which a happy-go-lucky doofus said, "We were just looking for some throw pillows for the loveseat in the breezeway," and my noble quest was about that important -- I meandered up National Avenue in West Allis, within livestock-sniffing distance of the State Fairgrounds, and found myself in sudden peril, chased by a pack of black-hooded ninjas on black racing bikes holding small, laser-guided handweapons, their black helmets of the latest curved design concealing their eyes as they bore down on me with extreme intent, as if in the opening sequence of a Japanese action comic. No? Well, that's what it sounded like yesterday in the vicinity of the Milwaukee Mile.
The funny part is, I was listening to golf on the car radio while being chased by the invisible ninjas. Sportscaster Sean McDonough hosted ESPN Radio's coverage of the U.S. Open from Congressional Country Club, at which young Jedi knight Rory McIlroy seeks to redeem himself in the eyes of the August Master. At the time, it seemed like a better listening option than weekend infomercials for living trusts.
Now, I've been known to give the radio medium its due. Baseball on the radio is a continuing joy. I've listened to Matt LePay's countless calls of "Touchdown, Wisconsin!" on Saturday afternoons (probably while shopping for curtain rods). I've listened to the Indy 500 on the radio in fascinated amazement at the tight broadcast production. I've even been involved in offbeat radio sports in a small way myself; back in the day, for example, I wore a highly attractive orange life preserver in a small powerboat as the remote engineer for college radio broadcasts of crew races, hanging on for dear life. (Pro tip: position yourself and your puffy vest as a noise baffle between the guy with the microphone and the outboard motor. Pro tip 2: if he falls overboard, immediately yell, "Let go of the mike!")
But, it's hard to do golf on the radio. Exactly how fascinating can the basic arithmetic of the leaderboard possibly be? How many times can McDonough & Co. describe Phil Mickelson's booming, errant drives into the next zip code and his wedge shots to 18 inches from 85 feet, and sound surprised? How critical is it whether McIlroy's proficient game stacks up to that of Tiger Woods, whose absence looms over this tournament like a ghostly apparition? Why do golf announcers whisper during the putts when they're probably sitting in a studio in Bristol, watching on the big screen like everyone else?
Yet on this day, the broadcast team provided an informative, workmanlike depiction of the sights and action from Congressional, never letting the audience wonder for a moment what Mickelson or McIlroy or their caddies might be thinking -- it seems that, according to all golf announcers throughout history, all pro golfers have "the courage of champions" -- as I sped through West Allis intersections and took hard corners trying to shake the racing ninjas in hot pursuit.
It suddenly occurred to me that I could slow down; I was not in mortal peril. The ninjas meant me no harm. It was merely Tiger and his entourage, trying to get close enough to The Silver Zloty to hear the latest updates on the leaderboard.
Running errands yesterday in The Silver Zloty -- there was an old radio ad in which a happy-go-lucky doofus said, "We were just looking for some throw pillows for the loveseat in the breezeway," and my noble quest was about that important -- I meandered up National Avenue in West Allis, within livestock-sniffing distance of the State Fairgrounds, and found myself in sudden peril, chased by a pack of black-hooded ninjas on black racing bikes holding small, laser-guided handweapons, their black helmets of the latest curved design concealing their eyes as they bore down on me with extreme intent, as if in the opening sequence of a Japanese action comic. No? Well, that's what it sounded like yesterday in the vicinity of the Milwaukee Mile.
The funny part is, I was listening to golf on the car radio while being chased by the invisible ninjas. Sportscaster Sean McDonough hosted ESPN Radio's coverage of the U.S. Open from Congressional Country Club, at which young Jedi knight Rory McIlroy seeks to redeem himself in the eyes of the August Master. At the time, it seemed like a better listening option than weekend infomercials for living trusts.
Now, I've been known to give the radio medium its due. Baseball on the radio is a continuing joy. I've listened to Matt LePay's countless calls of "Touchdown, Wisconsin!" on Saturday afternoons (probably while shopping for curtain rods). I've listened to the Indy 500 on the radio in fascinated amazement at the tight broadcast production. I've even been involved in offbeat radio sports in a small way myself; back in the day, for example, I wore a highly attractive orange life preserver in a small powerboat as the remote engineer for college radio broadcasts of crew races, hanging on for dear life. (Pro tip: position yourself and your puffy vest as a noise baffle between the guy with the microphone and the outboard motor. Pro tip 2: if he falls overboard, immediately yell, "Let go of the mike!")
But, it's hard to do golf on the radio. Exactly how fascinating can the basic arithmetic of the leaderboard possibly be? How many times can McDonough & Co. describe Phil Mickelson's booming, errant drives into the next zip code and his wedge shots to 18 inches from 85 feet, and sound surprised? How critical is it whether McIlroy's proficient game stacks up to that of Tiger Woods, whose absence looms over this tournament like a ghostly apparition? Why do golf announcers whisper during the putts when they're probably sitting in a studio in Bristol, watching on the big screen like everyone else?
Yet on this day, the broadcast team provided an informative, workmanlike depiction of the sights and action from Congressional, never letting the audience wonder for a moment what Mickelson or McIlroy or their caddies might be thinking -- it seems that, according to all golf announcers throughout history, all pro golfers have "the courage of champions" -- as I sped through West Allis intersections and took hard corners trying to shake the racing ninjas in hot pursuit.
It suddenly occurred to me that I could slow down; I was not in mortal peril. The ninjas meant me no harm. It was merely Tiger and his entourage, trying to get close enough to The Silver Zloty to hear the latest updates on the leaderboard.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
The Indestructible Wonder: A Requiem
You've got one in your closet, or in your dresser, or in a heap on the floor next to that box of junk that you keep meaning to sort through. It's your favorite shirt, the one that your Beloved Spousal Unit despises and that you cannot live without.
Mine was indestructible, until today. This is its story.
My Esteemed Paternal Unit, whose off-hours wardrobe is more Montgomery Ward than J.C. Penney, had declared its design unwearable by any serious, self-respecting, lawn-mowing male -- something about the two enormous front pockets, I think, though I'm still not sure -- so of course he passed the Indestructible Wonder and two others like it to his son. Sold as travel shirts; constructed of unnatural fibres to render them sink-washable and air-dryable; short-sleeved, with more pockets than buttons; in colors Almost White, Light Greenish-Grey, and Mango-Mustard; the shirts soon embarked upon their lives of second-hand service and achievement.
Their paths soon diverged. Mango-Mustard was worn twice, then donated under threat of pain, divorce, and more pain. Light Greenish-Grey was in the minor-league starting rotation -- low minors -- until it pilled and frayed beyond pragmatic utility six or eight years ago. Which left Almost White, a.k.a. the Indestructible Wonder, whose stoicism and indefatigable spirit through a long career of latex housepaint spatters, Secret Stadium Sauce drips, and assorted other cruel indignities serve as a model for us all.
"I thought you got rid of that thing," said my Beloved Spousal Unit this morning, with pro forma disgust -- yet, surely, with grudging admiration for my courageous steadfastness in the face of the omnipresent temptation of reckless fashion. A pair of pinhole-sized flaws had appeared above each pocket, their symmetry rightly suggesting the harmony and inner balance of the garment's occupant. Another blissful Milwaukee summer, sweating happily through the shirt at ballgames and festivals, loomed ahead.
Until...r-r-r-rrrrrrip! Tugging upward on the shirt's collar in back to relieve a bunched-up, folded-under, lumpy and itchy spot [Note to self: possible dog names - Lumpy & Itchy], I'd inadvertently separated the yoke from the back of the Formerly Indestructible Wonder.
My Beloved Spousal Unit's eyes widened, the corners of her mouth suddenly rising into a near-demonic grin of triumphant exultation. Leaving no chance that her long-awaited moment of deliverance would be further delayed through a deft repair with a mending kit, she set about to rip and ruin the shirt irretrievably. It is possible, Dear Reader, that I had not yet fully exited the damaged garment when this action was executed. (Oh, grow up!)
No longer indestructible, my favorite shirt lies in tatters, its cotton-polyester fibres sorrowfully stuffed inside a wastebasket in anticipation of the weekly trash collection; an unworthy fate, you'll agree, akin to Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's shrouded corpse being tossed unceremoniously into a pauper's grave. I am in mourning.
I wonder if I can find another one on eBay?
Mine was indestructible, until today. This is its story.
My Esteemed Paternal Unit, whose off-hours wardrobe is more Montgomery Ward than J.C. Penney, had declared its design unwearable by any serious, self-respecting, lawn-mowing male -- something about the two enormous front pockets, I think, though I'm still not sure -- so of course he passed the Indestructible Wonder and two others like it to his son. Sold as travel shirts; constructed of unnatural fibres to render them sink-washable and air-dryable; short-sleeved, with more pockets than buttons; in colors Almost White, Light Greenish-Grey, and Mango-Mustard; the shirts soon embarked upon their lives of second-hand service and achievement.
Their paths soon diverged. Mango-Mustard was worn twice, then donated under threat of pain, divorce, and more pain. Light Greenish-Grey was in the minor-league starting rotation -- low minors -- until it pilled and frayed beyond pragmatic utility six or eight years ago. Which left Almost White, a.k.a. the Indestructible Wonder, whose stoicism and indefatigable spirit through a long career of latex housepaint spatters, Secret Stadium Sauce drips, and assorted other cruel indignities serve as a model for us all.
"I thought you got rid of that thing," said my Beloved Spousal Unit this morning, with pro forma disgust -- yet, surely, with grudging admiration for my courageous steadfastness in the face of the omnipresent temptation of reckless fashion. A pair of pinhole-sized flaws had appeared above each pocket, their symmetry rightly suggesting the harmony and inner balance of the garment's occupant. Another blissful Milwaukee summer, sweating happily through the shirt at ballgames and festivals, loomed ahead.
Until...r-r-r-rrrrrrip! Tugging upward on the shirt's collar in back to relieve a bunched-up, folded-under, lumpy and itchy spot [Note to self: possible dog names - Lumpy & Itchy], I'd inadvertently separated the yoke from the back of the Formerly Indestructible Wonder.
My Beloved Spousal Unit's eyes widened, the corners of her mouth suddenly rising into a near-demonic grin of triumphant exultation. Leaving no chance that her long-awaited moment of deliverance would be further delayed through a deft repair with a mending kit, she set about to rip and ruin the shirt irretrievably. It is possible, Dear Reader, that I had not yet fully exited the damaged garment when this action was executed. (Oh, grow up!)
No longer indestructible, my favorite shirt lies in tatters, its cotton-polyester fibres sorrowfully stuffed inside a wastebasket in anticipation of the weekly trash collection; an unworthy fate, you'll agree, akin to Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's shrouded corpse being tossed unceremoniously into a pauper's grave. I am in mourning.
I wonder if I can find another one on eBay?
Thursday, March 31, 2011
A Bop from Bud on Opening Day
Some things can only happen in Milwaukee.
Celebrating baseball's Opening Day, with the Brewers on the road in Cincinnati, my Beloved Spousal Unit and I went to lunch at Gilles Frozen Custard, our favorite burger stand. There we planned to listen to Brewers announcer and veteran funnyman Bob Uecker, the happy survivor of recent health problems, kick off the new season's radio broadcasts. Located within a pop fly of her high school, just up Blue Mound Road from Miller Park, Gilles has been a favorite indulgence of Milwaukee natives and Brewers fans for decades. Wearing my Brewers cap and blue jacket, Opening Day essentials after a long Milwaukee winter, I trundled inside to order our Big Daddy burgers and shakes.
Whereupon, I espied the Big Daddy of Major League Baseball, Commissioner Allan H. "Bud" Selig, chatting amiably with the Gilles owner while taking his lunch break. It's well-chronicled that baseball is Selig's third most favorite thing in life, after his family and lunch at Gilles. The Commish orders his daily hot dogs with relish and retreats to his Lexus to plot the destiny of the National Pastime. (You can tell it's an important phone call if the brake lights of the Lexus are lit while he's parked.)
This is roughly equivalent to FIFA President Sepp Blatter keeping England and Germany from starting a war over World Cup groupings while chowing down on a liverwurst sandwich at a Zurich Imbiß after exchanging views with the Wurstmacher. Every day.
You have to understand Milwaukee to get this: it's no big deal for a 50-year old kid, or anyone else, to greet the Commish at Gilles, even when he doesn't know you from Adam. I hailed the chief in passing, an appreciative fan at the start of a new season: "It's a great day, Mr. Selig!" Wearing my Brewers hat while I did so -- the dopey one that spells out BREWERS in block letters -- earned me a knowing smile and a bop on the arm from Bud. The man may no longer own the team he saved from oblivion at least twice, and he may still have to disclaim any trace of residual partiality, but behind the two hot dogs with relish lives an exuberant Robin Yount fan.
Like March itself, today's ballgame came in with a roar but ended baa-aa-aa-adly. Back-to-back lead-off blasts by Rickie Weeks and Carlos Gomez to start the game had Milwaukee fans all a-Twitter, a good times feeling enhanced by more solid hitting and a defensive gem by Casey McGehee at third. Sadly, a game-long comeback by the Reds, capped by a walk-off pop by Ramon Hernandez, spoiled the day for Brewers fans, with closer John Axford playing the unaccustomed role of Goat-for-a-Day. Still, in this season of rare high expectations for the Crew, featuring a handful of postseason-worthy starting aces and enough offense for a team and a half, there's every reason to believe the Brewers will compete for a division title, and maybe more.
If that happens, I'm pretty sure the brake lights on the Lexus in the Gilles parking lot will be not just lit but flashing. With relish.
Celebrating baseball's Opening Day, with the Brewers on the road in Cincinnati, my Beloved Spousal Unit and I went to lunch at Gilles Frozen Custard, our favorite burger stand. There we planned to listen to Brewers announcer and veteran funnyman Bob Uecker, the happy survivor of recent health problems, kick off the new season's radio broadcasts. Located within a pop fly of her high school, just up Blue Mound Road from Miller Park, Gilles has been a favorite indulgence of Milwaukee natives and Brewers fans for decades. Wearing my Brewers cap and blue jacket, Opening Day essentials after a long Milwaukee winter, I trundled inside to order our Big Daddy burgers and shakes.
Whereupon, I espied the Big Daddy of Major League Baseball, Commissioner Allan H. "Bud" Selig, chatting amiably with the Gilles owner while taking his lunch break. It's well-chronicled that baseball is Selig's third most favorite thing in life, after his family and lunch at Gilles. The Commish orders his daily hot dogs with relish and retreats to his Lexus to plot the destiny of the National Pastime. (You can tell it's an important phone call if the brake lights of the Lexus are lit while he's parked.)
This is roughly equivalent to FIFA President Sepp Blatter keeping England and Germany from starting a war over World Cup groupings while chowing down on a liverwurst sandwich at a Zurich Imbiß after exchanging views with the Wurstmacher. Every day.
You have to understand Milwaukee to get this: it's no big deal for a 50-year old kid, or anyone else, to greet the Commish at Gilles, even when he doesn't know you from Adam. I hailed the chief in passing, an appreciative fan at the start of a new season: "It's a great day, Mr. Selig!" Wearing my Brewers hat while I did so -- the dopey one that spells out BREWERS in block letters -- earned me a knowing smile and a bop on the arm from Bud. The man may no longer own the team he saved from oblivion at least twice, and he may still have to disclaim any trace of residual partiality, but behind the two hot dogs with relish lives an exuberant Robin Yount fan.
Like March itself, today's ballgame came in with a roar but ended baa-aa-aa-adly. Back-to-back lead-off blasts by Rickie Weeks and Carlos Gomez to start the game had Milwaukee fans all a-Twitter, a good times feeling enhanced by more solid hitting and a defensive gem by Casey McGehee at third. Sadly, a game-long comeback by the Reds, capped by a walk-off pop by Ramon Hernandez, spoiled the day for Brewers fans, with closer John Axford playing the unaccustomed role of Goat-for-a-Day. Still, in this season of rare high expectations for the Crew, featuring a handful of postseason-worthy starting aces and enough offense for a team and a half, there's every reason to believe the Brewers will compete for a division title, and maybe more.
If that happens, I'm pretty sure the brake lights on the Lexus in the Gilles parking lot will be not just lit but flashing. With relish.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Fear the Deer; Don't Fear the Tier
Milwaukee Journal Sentinel and JSOnline.com columnist Don Walker today asked, "Is Contraction on the Table in the NBA?"
I tend to think it is, in order for the league to gain leverage on two fronts. First, of course, is the ever present push-pull of labor negotiations with the NBA Players Association. The threat of fewer jobs will either loosen up the players' demands or result in a strike or lockout. The NHL Players Association found out about the latter the hard way a few years ago.
Second, the specter of contraction rattles the cities and communities that constitute the smaller, less profitable NBA markets, such as Milwaukee. To put it bluntly, the Greater Milwaukee area isn't as "Greater" as it used to be, economically. There's no question that some so-called small-market NBA teams, such as the Bucks, are disadvantaged by lower television revenues than their peer franchises. Some also have arenas that -- from a revenue standpoint -- are economically inferior to major facilities in the league's top cities. If the Bucks are to remain competitive here, then local business leaders and politicians will have to pony up for a new arena, or else for a major refurbishment to the Bradley Center that would be tantamount in cost to a new arena. This public expenditure seems unlikely in the current economy, particularly with U.S. Senator Herb Kohl of Wisconsin, the Bucks' owner, increasingly less likely to influence the team's direction within a few years.
So the situation for the NBA, in a nutshell, is this: how can the league avoid abandoning its middle-city franchises, like Milwaukee, while not absolutely requiring new arena construction from markets that cannot afford it?
There's a potential solution that I haven't heard anyone discuss. Personally, I would have no problem with a two-tier NBA in which more playoff slots are reserved for teams from the upper tier. Put the Bulls, Celtics, Lakers, and Heat, and their peers, in the upper tier; keep Cleveland, Milwaukee, Oklahoma City, Toronto, and other middle-city franchises in the league by creating a second, lower tier. That's basically what it's come to now anyway. Shift teams between the upper and lower tiers based on their prior year's performance, like the European soccer leagues. Or just define teams as upper or lower tier, more or less permanently, and negotiate different salary caps with the NBA Players Association that fit the economics of each respective tier. The peer-level competition within the respective tiers will keep the fans happy, and the lower cost and payroll stability will keep the owners -- and importantly, their risk-averse bankers -- happy.
For some reason, we're allergic to consideration of a tiered approach to professional sports in the U.S. Major league franchises are uneven in quality as a result, and the minor leagues, while beloved by local fans, are very minor by comparison. I like a Toledo Mud Hens game as much as Max Klinger does, but unless I go to a game when driving through that city, I hear nothing about it. But the sad truth is, some of the major league teams in all major sports have become, from the standpoint of national recognition, all but minor league franchises as well -- the Bucks in the NBA, the Pirates in MLB (I'm trying very hard not to mention the Brewers here), Detroit in the NFL, and so forth. Occasionally they overachieve, thanks to a star draft pick like the Bucks' guard Brandon Jennings or stalwart center Andrew Bogut, but in the long run, such teams have little recurring chance against the Lakers, Yankees, and Cowboys. Still, the mid-cities' citizens and local leaders want their teams to remain "major league", not just in fact but as a point of civic pride. "We're big kids, too!"
A two-tier structure would provide a measure of franchise sustainability and allow civic face-saving to occur in the smaller markets, an outcome far preferable to the loss of a team altogether. The NBA second tier that I'm proposing would not be a mere replica of the now-defunct Continental Basketball Association; the Bucks would still play the Cavs, and it would still be an NBA game with NBA players. They'd even play the Lakers once in a while, and the Bulls more often as a regional rivalry. We just wouldn't see Kobe or LeBron in person as often at the Bradley Center -- and by the way, the tickets might be priced at $30 or $35 instead of $75.
If you can live with that, Bucks fans, then so can I. It might even open the door for NBA expansion, not contraction. Pittsburgh Pipers, anyone?
I tend to think it is, in order for the league to gain leverage on two fronts. First, of course, is the ever present push-pull of labor negotiations with the NBA Players Association. The threat of fewer jobs will either loosen up the players' demands or result in a strike or lockout. The NHL Players Association found out about the latter the hard way a few years ago.
Second, the specter of contraction rattles the cities and communities that constitute the smaller, less profitable NBA markets, such as Milwaukee. To put it bluntly, the Greater Milwaukee area isn't as "Greater" as it used to be, economically. There's no question that some so-called small-market NBA teams, such as the Bucks, are disadvantaged by lower television revenues than their peer franchises. Some also have arenas that -- from a revenue standpoint -- are economically inferior to major facilities in the league's top cities. If the Bucks are to remain competitive here, then local business leaders and politicians will have to pony up for a new arena, or else for a major refurbishment to the Bradley Center that would be tantamount in cost to a new arena. This public expenditure seems unlikely in the current economy, particularly with U.S. Senator Herb Kohl of Wisconsin, the Bucks' owner, increasingly less likely to influence the team's direction within a few years.
So the situation for the NBA, in a nutshell, is this: how can the league avoid abandoning its middle-city franchises, like Milwaukee, while not absolutely requiring new arena construction from markets that cannot afford it?
There's a potential solution that I haven't heard anyone discuss. Personally, I would have no problem with a two-tier NBA in which more playoff slots are reserved for teams from the upper tier. Put the Bulls, Celtics, Lakers, and Heat, and their peers, in the upper tier; keep Cleveland, Milwaukee, Oklahoma City, Toronto, and other middle-city franchises in the league by creating a second, lower tier. That's basically what it's come to now anyway. Shift teams between the upper and lower tiers based on their prior year's performance, like the European soccer leagues. Or just define teams as upper or lower tier, more or less permanently, and negotiate different salary caps with the NBA Players Association that fit the economics of each respective tier. The peer-level competition within the respective tiers will keep the fans happy, and the lower cost and payroll stability will keep the owners -- and importantly, their risk-averse bankers -- happy.
For some reason, we're allergic to consideration of a tiered approach to professional sports in the U.S. Major league franchises are uneven in quality as a result, and the minor leagues, while beloved by local fans, are very minor by comparison. I like a Toledo Mud Hens game as much as Max Klinger does, but unless I go to a game when driving through that city, I hear nothing about it. But the sad truth is, some of the major league teams in all major sports have become, from the standpoint of national recognition, all but minor league franchises as well -- the Bucks in the NBA, the Pirates in MLB (I'm trying very hard not to mention the Brewers here), Detroit in the NFL, and so forth. Occasionally they overachieve, thanks to a star draft pick like the Bucks' guard Brandon Jennings or stalwart center Andrew Bogut, but in the long run, such teams have little recurring chance against the Lakers, Yankees, and Cowboys. Still, the mid-cities' citizens and local leaders want their teams to remain "major league", not just in fact but as a point of civic pride. "We're big kids, too!"
A two-tier structure would provide a measure of franchise sustainability and allow civic face-saving to occur in the smaller markets, an outcome far preferable to the loss of a team altogether. The NBA second tier that I'm proposing would not be a mere replica of the now-defunct Continental Basketball Association; the Bucks would still play the Cavs, and it would still be an NBA game with NBA players. They'd even play the Lakers once in a while, and the Bulls more often as a regional rivalry. We just wouldn't see Kobe or LeBron in person as often at the Bradley Center -- and by the way, the tickets might be priced at $30 or $35 instead of $75.
If you can live with that, Bucks fans, then so can I. It might even open the door for NBA expansion, not contraction. Pittsburgh Pipers, anyone?
Friday, September 24, 2010
"Ooooh, Sticks!"
Some people like to take casual strolls in Milwaukee's lovely parks and along its waterways. Others go for a jog near Bradford Beach at the Lake Michigan shoreline. Civic-minded volunteers pick up trash and litter in public areas, working together toward the laudable goal of urban beautification.
My Beloved Spousal Unit and I pick up sticks.
Not just any sticks; dead sticks. Burnable sticks. Burnable-in-the-fireplace sticks. Burnable-so-that-even-a-former-Boy-Scout-who-never-made-Second-Class-can-start-a-fire-with-two-matches sticks.
Last winter was our first season as domestic fireplace operators. Our large firewood supply held out fine, but we ran out of sticks. They sell firewood by the face cord; who sells sticks? So, we fetch sticks.
The other day I voted in the Primaries. On my half-mile walk to the polling place, I saw an eight-foot fallen branch, an inch-and-a-half or so in diameter, the late mother-limb of several baby limbs of useful dimension, sitting at the side of the road; an obvious casualty of the prior evening's thunderstorms. A veritable treasure-trove of sticks -- for free! -- merely three blocks up from our place.
The calculations began: If I pass it by, walk the three remaining blocks to vote, and walk back, will the branch still be there? Should I haul the branch home first, and then restart my trek -- a gambit which might tempt this proud but lazy citizen to say the hell with voting? Or do I claim the branch, drag it to the polling station, leave it outside with the slogan-sign mules and pamphleteers -- they'll surely know better than to mess with a branch-wielding loony, won't they? -- and then drag it all the way back home? This is how the branch-addict thinks.
I'm not sure who was more thrilled: I, when I saw that my branch was still waiting for me on the way back, or my Beloved Spousal Unit, when she saw that I'd actually performed a useful act of hunting and gathering.
When a poor man came in sight,
Gath'ring winter fue-ue-el!
I asked a timber-owning friend, The Tin Woodsman of Upstate N.Y., whether my wonderful branch and its many sublime sub-limbs would air-dry in time to use in our fireplace this season. Taking pity, he provided remedial education: "Some species such as oak take more time to dry because of their grain (xylem cell) structure, beech is fairly fast drying, and maple is sort-of average." He further advised me, in a kind voice -- or would have, had he not been responding via email -- that my splendid prize, which I'd spent a highly inefficient 45 minutes dismembering and cutting to length with a dull pruning saw, "may not amount to much volume."
Hmmph, I thought. The Tin Woodsman may know his xylem and phloem, but I say he knows nada about sticks.
Today, the autumn wind is howling. Returning from errands, my Beloved Spousal Unit and I stepped out of the Silver Zloty in front of our home. Instantly, our eyes fell upon a cornucopia of future kindling on the street and sidewalk. "Ooooh, sticks!" said the two highly-educated professionals, in unison. We can hardly wait for the first ice storm of the season.
The General Election is a month-and-a-half away. In six weeks, I'll walk six blocks to vote for the candidate who promises us the most sticks.
My Beloved Spousal Unit and I pick up sticks.
Not just any sticks; dead sticks. Burnable sticks. Burnable-in-the-fireplace sticks. Burnable-so-that-even-a-former-Boy-Scout-who-never-made-Second-Class-can-start-a-fire-with-two-matches sticks.
Last winter was our first season as domestic fireplace operators. Our large firewood supply held out fine, but we ran out of sticks. They sell firewood by the face cord; who sells sticks? So, we fetch sticks.
The other day I voted in the Primaries. On my half-mile walk to the polling place, I saw an eight-foot fallen branch, an inch-and-a-half or so in diameter, the late mother-limb of several baby limbs of useful dimension, sitting at the side of the road; an obvious casualty of the prior evening's thunderstorms. A veritable treasure-trove of sticks -- for free! -- merely three blocks up from our place.
The calculations began: If I pass it by, walk the three remaining blocks to vote, and walk back, will the branch still be there? Should I haul the branch home first, and then restart my trek -- a gambit which might tempt this proud but lazy citizen to say the hell with voting? Or do I claim the branch, drag it to the polling station, leave it outside with the slogan-sign mules and pamphleteers -- they'll surely know better than to mess with a branch-wielding loony, won't they? -- and then drag it all the way back home? This is how the branch-addict thinks.
I'm not sure who was more thrilled: I, when I saw that my branch was still waiting for me on the way back, or my Beloved Spousal Unit, when she saw that I'd actually performed a useful act of hunting and gathering.
When a poor man came in sight,
Gath'ring winter fue-ue-el!
I asked a timber-owning friend, The Tin Woodsman of Upstate N.Y., whether my wonderful branch and its many sublime sub-limbs would air-dry in time to use in our fireplace this season. Taking pity, he provided remedial education: "Some species such as oak take more time to dry because of their grain (xylem cell) structure, beech is fairly fast drying, and maple is sort-of average." He further advised me, in a kind voice -- or would have, had he not been responding via email -- that my splendid prize, which I'd spent a highly inefficient 45 minutes dismembering and cutting to length with a dull pruning saw, "may not amount to much volume."
Hmmph, I thought. The Tin Woodsman may know his xylem and phloem, but I say he knows nada about sticks.
Today, the autumn wind is howling. Returning from errands, my Beloved Spousal Unit and I stepped out of the Silver Zloty in front of our home. Instantly, our eyes fell upon a cornucopia of future kindling on the street and sidewalk. "Ooooh, sticks!" said the two highly-educated professionals, in unison. We can hardly wait for the first ice storm of the season.
The General Election is a month-and-a-half away. In six weeks, I'll walk six blocks to vote for the candidate who promises us the most sticks.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Cabaret, Revisited
My disclaimer in an earlier post about not being a professional theater critic turns out to have been well-founded. I've just read Tom Strini's colorful, comprehensive review of The Milwaukee Rep's season-opening production of Cabaret in Third Coast Digest. It seems that if you immerse yourself in the performing arts for nearly 30 years, you get pretty good at writing about it. My hat's off to the true Schreibenmeister!
I now want to go back and see the show again, if only to look for and absorb all the wonderful movement, musical, and staging elements that Tom Strini identified and I'd failed to see beneath the surface. I'm also curious to see if I'll be able to discern any further sculpting and shaping of the production by The Rep's Director Mark Clements since the Preview Night performance that I saw. No doubt, Strini could tell me where to look -- and Clements could tell me where to go!
I now want to go back and see the show again, if only to look for and absorb all the wonderful movement, musical, and staging elements that Tom Strini identified and I'd failed to see beneath the surface. I'm also curious to see if I'll be able to discern any further sculpting and shaping of the production by The Rep's Director Mark Clements since the Preview Night performance that I saw. No doubt, Strini could tell me where to look -- and Clements could tell me where to go!
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Cabaret dell'Arte
(Disclaimer: I am not a professional theater critic, nor do I have any business trying to be one.)
Another production of Cabaret, I thought -- until I heard that the Milwaukee Repertory Theater's own Lee E. Ernst would star as the Master of Ceremonies (and Preview tickets were cheap!). Ernst's dynamic portrayal of the frenetic, improvisational masked clown and show-stopping centerpiece Harlequin in The Rep's 1998 production of Servant of Two Masters, an 18th-century classic in the Commedia dell'arte tradition, had been one of the most distinctive, physically expressive, exhausting stage performances that I'd ever seen. Now the Emcee role; perfect casting. "I am your host!"
Twelve years on, Lee Ernst is nearly as spry as before, and his unmasked facial expressions are priceless. As the events inside and outside the Kit Kat Klub progress from light entertainment to ominous foreboding, building ultimately to tragedy and terror of historic proportions, Ernst centers the show. With the exception of the stage-whispered song "I Don't Care Much", which I guess is meant to be haunting but seemed underwhelming, Ernst's musical numbers were spot-on, faithful recreations of the original versions with touches of his own manic style.
That a long-time Milwaukee Rep favorite actor should be the one to animate the 2010-11 season opener is ironic, as The Rep's new Artistic Director Mark Clements cast dozens of outsiders and interns as part of a purported fresh blood/new energy movement for the company. Some fit their roles well, most notably supporting players Linda Stephens as Fräulein Schneider and Angela Ianonne as Fräulein Kost. Those recalling the movie version, expecting scintillating lead performances from the actors playing the Liza Minnelli-Michael York couple, will be disappointed, however -- not in Kelley Faulkner's powerful, pitch-perfect singing of the title song as Sally Bowles, but in her rigid affect, a seeming disqualification for playing a headlining showgirl. I got the sense that she hadn't quite warmed to the role yet. I also thought Ianonne, a more expressive actor, might have made a more credible Sally Bowles. Geoffrey Hemingway, as the closeted American naif who becomes enamored with Sally, is also either miscast or misdirected, coming across as a refugee from the cast of Our Town whom one can never quite believe is a promising writer.
Director Clements is more successful in the overall stage direction, including his collaboration with Milwaukee Ballet Artistic Director Michael Pink as Choreographer. It's evident that exceptional effort went into the dance and musical direction of the show, particularly the show's classic opening number, "Willkommen!" I had a sense that Clements wanted to make both a statement and a memorable splash with his first production number of the season -- not to mention his nascent tenure as Artistic Director. While this production seems "safe" -- PG-13, if you will, and not at all edgy by today's standards (what were those odd costumes Lee Ernst was wearing?) -- Clements is quite unsubtle in presenting the signs of impending doom in the Nazi era. With a spotlight narrowly focusing on a significant, symbolic crystal bowl, and the ensemble's coalescing into a folk chorus singing the nationalistic anthem "Tomorrow Belongs to Me" -- not to mention the openly, unabashedly displayed swastika armbands on the sleeves of partisans -- the show leaves little doubt about the horrific trajectory that awaits German Jews and Germany itself in the 1930s.
One side note: I very much appreciate the preliminary talk given by Milwaukee Rep cast member Jonathan Gills Daly, who appears in the show moments later as the middle-aged, Jewish-German fruit merchant, Herr Schultz, tragically smitten with Fräulein Schneider. His description of the events and mindset of ordinary Germans in 1928, based as they were on German national ambitions and humiliations of the prior seventy years, covers familiar ground but is, perhaps, useful for younger audience members who may not yet have been introduced to the lessons of history -- and stands as a stark warning for those among us who may have forgotten them.
Another production of Cabaret, I thought -- until I heard that the Milwaukee Repertory Theater's own Lee E. Ernst would star as the Master of Ceremonies (and Preview tickets were cheap!). Ernst's dynamic portrayal of the frenetic, improvisational masked clown and show-stopping centerpiece Harlequin in The Rep's 1998 production of Servant of Two Masters, an 18th-century classic in the Commedia dell'arte tradition, had been one of the most distinctive, physically expressive, exhausting stage performances that I'd ever seen. Now the Emcee role; perfect casting. "I am your host!"
Twelve years on, Lee Ernst is nearly as spry as before, and his unmasked facial expressions are priceless. As the events inside and outside the Kit Kat Klub progress from light entertainment to ominous foreboding, building ultimately to tragedy and terror of historic proportions, Ernst centers the show. With the exception of the stage-whispered song "I Don't Care Much", which I guess is meant to be haunting but seemed underwhelming, Ernst's musical numbers were spot-on, faithful recreations of the original versions with touches of his own manic style.
That a long-time Milwaukee Rep favorite actor should be the one to animate the 2010-11 season opener is ironic, as The Rep's new Artistic Director Mark Clements cast dozens of outsiders and interns as part of a purported fresh blood/new energy movement for the company. Some fit their roles well, most notably supporting players Linda Stephens as Fräulein Schneider and Angela Ianonne as Fräulein Kost. Those recalling the movie version, expecting scintillating lead performances from the actors playing the Liza Minnelli-Michael York couple, will be disappointed, however -- not in Kelley Faulkner's powerful, pitch-perfect singing of the title song as Sally Bowles, but in her rigid affect, a seeming disqualification for playing a headlining showgirl. I got the sense that she hadn't quite warmed to the role yet. I also thought Ianonne, a more expressive actor, might have made a more credible Sally Bowles. Geoffrey Hemingway, as the closeted American naif who becomes enamored with Sally, is also either miscast or misdirected, coming across as a refugee from the cast of Our Town whom one can never quite believe is a promising writer.
Director Clements is more successful in the overall stage direction, including his collaboration with Milwaukee Ballet Artistic Director Michael Pink as Choreographer. It's evident that exceptional effort went into the dance and musical direction of the show, particularly the show's classic opening number, "Willkommen!" I had a sense that Clements wanted to make both a statement and a memorable splash with his first production number of the season -- not to mention his nascent tenure as Artistic Director. While this production seems "safe" -- PG-13, if you will, and not at all edgy by today's standards (what were those odd costumes Lee Ernst was wearing?) -- Clements is quite unsubtle in presenting the signs of impending doom in the Nazi era. With a spotlight narrowly focusing on a significant, symbolic crystal bowl, and the ensemble's coalescing into a folk chorus singing the nationalistic anthem "Tomorrow Belongs to Me" -- not to mention the openly, unabashedly displayed swastika armbands on the sleeves of partisans -- the show leaves little doubt about the horrific trajectory that awaits German Jews and Germany itself in the 1930s.
One side note: I very much appreciate the preliminary talk given by Milwaukee Rep cast member Jonathan Gills Daly, who appears in the show moments later as the middle-aged, Jewish-German fruit merchant, Herr Schultz, tragically smitten with Fräulein Schneider. His description of the events and mindset of ordinary Germans in 1928, based as they were on German national ambitions and humiliations of the prior seventy years, covers familiar ground but is, perhaps, useful for younger audience members who may not yet have been introduced to the lessons of history -- and stands as a stark warning for those among us who may have forgotten them.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
I'm a Lucky Spousal Unit
My Beloved Spousal Unit has written a wonderful blog post, a warm appreciation of baseball and the small treasures that even a late-season game between two non-contenders can hold in store for the observant fan.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
A Cheshire Cat, With Wings
Andrew Weiland of BizTimes Milwaukee posted an article today about the post-merger rebranding of Milwaukee-based Midwest Airlines as Frontier Airlines: "Only the Cookie Remains".
Midwest had some great amenities in its heyday as Midwest Express: 2x2 leather seating, enough legroom for actual human persons, and real meals featuring real food on real tablecloths. With direct flights that avoided an O'Hare connection, Midwest truly was, as the slogans went, "Milwaukee's Hometown Airline" offering "The Best Care in the Air."
It was a wonderful experience. Passengers were happy cats. Clearly, it couldn't last.
One by one, the amenities disappeared as airline price competition and a moribund travel economy, post-9/11, brought cost-cutting imperatives and forced Midwest to consider consolidation. The company's Board of Directors rebuffed a takeover bid from AirTran Airways, only to sell soon thereafter to Republic Airways, which had also bought Denver-based Frontier Airlines.
Everyone seems relieved that Midwest's fresh-baked chocolate-chip cookies, customarily handed out to passengers during the descent, will continue to be part of the customer experience as the fleet is repainted in Frontier's colors. Really? Was it only about the cookies, all along?
The smile may remain, but this cat's disappeared. Like Grizabella, only time will tell if she has another life left in her.
Midwest had some great amenities in its heyday as Midwest Express: 2x2 leather seating, enough legroom for actual human persons, and real meals featuring real food on real tablecloths. With direct flights that avoided an O'Hare connection, Midwest truly was, as the slogans went, "Milwaukee's Hometown Airline" offering "The Best Care in the Air."
It was a wonderful experience. Passengers were happy cats. Clearly, it couldn't last.
One by one, the amenities disappeared as airline price competition and a moribund travel economy, post-9/11, brought cost-cutting imperatives and forced Midwest to consider consolidation. The company's Board of Directors rebuffed a takeover bid from AirTran Airways, only to sell soon thereafter to Republic Airways, which had also bought Denver-based Frontier Airlines.
Everyone seems relieved that Midwest's fresh-baked chocolate-chip cookies, customarily handed out to passengers during the descent, will continue to be part of the customer experience as the fleet is repainted in Frontier's colors. Really? Was it only about the cookies, all along?
The smile may remain, but this cat's disappeared. Like Grizabella, only time will tell if she has another life left in her.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Hell's Bells: Trevor Hoffman Wins One
What do you do when your legendary bullpen ace falters? If you're the Milwaukee Brewers, you win the game anyway. If you're a Brewers fan, it's not so clear.
Sunday night's Brewers-Cardinals game at Miller Park was hugely entertaining for Milwaukee baseball enthusiasts, including my Beloved Spousal Unit and I, perched in the upper deck. Baseball's full range of action was on display: impressive power hitting, alert baserunning, an incredible, diving catch in the outfield, and both expert stops and game-changing errors in the infield.
By the time the overtaxed stadium speakers struck up "Hell's Bells" at peak volume as the Brewers' closer, future Hall of Famer Trevor Hoffman, trotted in from the bullpen, the hometown faithful were in a partying mood.
Only, not so fast. Giving up back-to-back homers to Albert Pujols and Matt Holliday -- what other pair of the game's best sluggers would be more likely to come through in the clutch? -- Hoffman closed out merely the half-inning, not the game. He left with a a 7-7 tie, a blown save, and a deflated crowd.
There were boos as he walked off, more than a few. For Trevor Hoffman. The Trevor Hoffman. With 594 career saves, the most in the history of the game. The veteran presence on the pitching staff. The player whose theme song alone whips the crowd into a frenzy.
But also, the Trevor Hoffman who had signed a new contract for a healthy raise early in the off-season, struggled all spring training, and has yet to find his "A"-game this April. Now, two of the game's best hitters take him deep in the ninth. Never mind that the Brewers' Casey McGehee made Hoffman the game's winning pitcher with a walk-off homer moments later. The question remains: is this the beginning of the end for one of the game's superstars?
Could be. But, fellow Milwaukeeans, knock it off with the booing. We're talking about Trevor Hoffman here. Not only is he crucial to our chances, but we're lucky to have the opportunity to watch him at his craft, even in his late career. This is why we bring Rembrandts to the Milwaukee Art Museum, the Dead Sea Scrolls to the Milwaukee Public Museum, Eric Clapton to Summerfest, the Bratwurst to the Sausage Race.
We're trying to encourage the Brew Crew to win a ballgame, and we're disappointed when the team falls short some nights. But please, a little appreciation and respect for the great career and continuing efforts of a consummate professional. Enough with the booing. All things considered, I'd rather not be in Philadelphia.
Sunday night's Brewers-Cardinals game at Miller Park was hugely entertaining for Milwaukee baseball enthusiasts, including my Beloved Spousal Unit and I, perched in the upper deck. Baseball's full range of action was on display: impressive power hitting, alert baserunning, an incredible, diving catch in the outfield, and both expert stops and game-changing errors in the infield.
By the time the overtaxed stadium speakers struck up "Hell's Bells" at peak volume as the Brewers' closer, future Hall of Famer Trevor Hoffman, trotted in from the bullpen, the hometown faithful were in a partying mood.
Only, not so fast. Giving up back-to-back homers to Albert Pujols and Matt Holliday -- what other pair of the game's best sluggers would be more likely to come through in the clutch? -- Hoffman closed out merely the half-inning, not the game. He left with a a 7-7 tie, a blown save, and a deflated crowd.
There were boos as he walked off, more than a few. For Trevor Hoffman. The Trevor Hoffman. With 594 career saves, the most in the history of the game. The veteran presence on the pitching staff. The player whose theme song alone whips the crowd into a frenzy.
But also, the Trevor Hoffman who had signed a new contract for a healthy raise early in the off-season, struggled all spring training, and has yet to find his "A"-game this April. Now, two of the game's best hitters take him deep in the ninth. Never mind that the Brewers' Casey McGehee made Hoffman the game's winning pitcher with a walk-off homer moments later. The question remains: is this the beginning of the end for one of the game's superstars?
Could be. But, fellow Milwaukeeans, knock it off with the booing. We're talking about Trevor Hoffman here. Not only is he crucial to our chances, but we're lucky to have the opportunity to watch him at his craft, even in his late career. This is why we bring Rembrandts to the Milwaukee Art Museum, the Dead Sea Scrolls to the Milwaukee Public Museum, Eric Clapton to Summerfest, the Bratwurst to the Sausage Race.
We're trying to encourage the Brew Crew to win a ballgame, and we're disappointed when the team falls short some nights. But please, a little appreciation and respect for the great career and continuing efforts of a consummate professional. Enough with the booing. All things considered, I'd rather not be in Philadelphia.
Friday, January 1, 2010
It's Our Bloggerversary!
Dear Friends (and the occasional "Next Blog" clicker),
One year ago today, I posted a timid entry regarding the number of days remaining until the start of baseball spring training. Thus began a rapid disgorging, ceremonious and unceremonious, of every wee little intellectual twitch I had that I thought might look good in ASCII characters. I had two rules: I had to express a unique take or personal angle on each topic chosen; and...I forget the second rule. Whatever. Oh, right, that was the second rule: Whatever. My internalized Assignment Editor would be checked at the door, or preferably into the boards.
I only violated the spirit of these rules a few times, as with a rather generic recent review of the new Sherlock Holmes movie. That's the neat thing about having a blog, though: I can flout my own rules at will. In the immortal words of General Al Haig: I'm in charge here, yo ho ho!
Since My Two Innings was initiated, I and my Beloved Spousal Unit (take a bow, dear) have rescued ourselves from the brink of Denver employment and happily scurried back into the warm embrace of Milwaukee's economic malaise. This represented the closing leg of an epic, four-year tour of America's most benighted, yet reportedly above-average cities -- all of which seemed to involve driving large trucks through Nebraska to get there.
Meanwhile, through the secular magic of Blogger, I've indulged in numerous obscure references, ignored highly sensible educational requirements that one should meet before engaging in art criticism, and decried the downfall of third-rate sports teams that were never really as good as second-rate to begin with. Baseball, Hockey, Movies, and Music have all been featured prominently in these scribblings, naturally, but who knew at the outset that Bowling Alley Demolition, Equestrian Feats, and Male Hereditary Characteristics would also become tagged entries? Free Verse, even -- twice. Talk about indulgence.
I don't want to give you the wrong impression. It's not been all Pulitzer Prizes and mid-six-figures book contracts. Distractions from a more dedicated commitment to the blog and to writing generally have included a foray into the lamentable, lazy man's world of Twitter; a randomly occurring, sudden spate of gainfulness carrying with it the strangely alluring appeal of a paycheck; and the predictable development that it took only two months in the beginning to use up all of my passably tolerable stories.
Even so, I've managed to prove once and for all, in this media-slogged millenium, that an amateur blogger's two best friends are an ergonomic keyboard and a low readership count.
So here we are again, only seven weeks until pitchers and catchers report. At the rate things are going, that's either three blog posts, two soul-crushing Pittsburgh Pirates salary dumps, or one exceptionally long drive through Nebraska. My money's on the Nuttings, as they haven't disappointed me yet. Good luck on your picks, and Happy New Year to you and yours!
One year ago today, I posted a timid entry regarding the number of days remaining until the start of baseball spring training. Thus began a rapid disgorging, ceremonious and unceremonious, of every wee little intellectual twitch I had that I thought might look good in ASCII characters. I had two rules: I had to express a unique take or personal angle on each topic chosen; and...I forget the second rule. Whatever. Oh, right, that was the second rule: Whatever. My internalized Assignment Editor would be checked at the door, or preferably into the boards.
I only violated the spirit of these rules a few times, as with a rather generic recent review of the new Sherlock Holmes movie. That's the neat thing about having a blog, though: I can flout my own rules at will. In the immortal words of General Al Haig: I'm in charge here, yo ho ho!
Since My Two Innings was initiated, I and my Beloved Spousal Unit (take a bow, dear) have rescued ourselves from the brink of Denver employment and happily scurried back into the warm embrace of Milwaukee's economic malaise. This represented the closing leg of an epic, four-year tour of America's most benighted, yet reportedly above-average cities -- all of which seemed to involve driving large trucks through Nebraska to get there.
Meanwhile, through the secular magic of Blogger, I've indulged in numerous obscure references, ignored highly sensible educational requirements that one should meet before engaging in art criticism, and decried the downfall of third-rate sports teams that were never really as good as second-rate to begin with. Baseball, Hockey, Movies, and Music have all been featured prominently in these scribblings, naturally, but who knew at the outset that Bowling Alley Demolition, Equestrian Feats, and Male Hereditary Characteristics would also become tagged entries? Free Verse, even -- twice. Talk about indulgence.
I don't want to give you the wrong impression. It's not been all Pulitzer Prizes and mid-six-figures book contracts. Distractions from a more dedicated commitment to the blog and to writing generally have included a foray into the lamentable, lazy man's world of Twitter; a randomly occurring, sudden spate of gainfulness carrying with it the strangely alluring appeal of a paycheck; and the predictable development that it took only two months in the beginning to use up all of my passably tolerable stories.
Even so, I've managed to prove once and for all, in this media-slogged millenium, that an amateur blogger's two best friends are an ergonomic keyboard and a low readership count.
So here we are again, only seven weeks until pitchers and catchers report. At the rate things are going, that's either three blog posts, two soul-crushing Pittsburgh Pirates salary dumps, or one exceptionally long drive through Nebraska. My money's on the Nuttings, as they haven't disappointed me yet. Good luck on your picks, and Happy New Year to you and yours!
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Corner Kick
It's 1967; I'm eight years old. My dad takes me with him to RPI, the college where he teaches, to see a home football game. The well-kept athletic field is nestled on campus amongst the classrooms, labs, and dorms. Admission is free, or perhaps a buck or two, and we find seats in the bleachers. The play moves up and down the field. Assorted parents, kids, students, and football fans cheer on the home team. Down two rows from us, a student holds forth loudly, holding the tallest can of beer I've ever seen. A penalty flag is thrown, and the drums of the student pep band beat a military tattoo. I hear certain words I've never heard before. Dad buys me a hot dog or a hot chocolate, or both. It's the sunniest of sunny autumn days.
It's 2009; I'm fifty years old. By now, I've heard all the words. I drive over to the UW-Milwaukee campus on the East Side for a Friday afternoon soccer double-header, part of an early-season weekend tournament. The well-kept athletic field is nestled on campus amongst the classrooms, labs, and dorms. Admission is five dollars, and I find a seat in the bleachers. The play moves up and down the field. Assorted parents, kids, students, and soccer fans cheer on the two Wisconsin-based teams. Down two rows from me, the public address announcer reads an ad for the local sandwich franchise. "It's a Pepsi Panther corner kick!" he exclaims, followed by a Panther roar -- the same cheesy sound effect from the last UWM game that I'd watched, four years earlier. Several members of the nationally-ranked team from that era, now part of a local club team that won a championship, are introduced to the appreciative crowd at halftime. I munch on a bratwurst. It's a warm autumn evening under the lights.
This week, we heard of the passing of NCAA President Myles Brand. An RPI philosophy major and former President of Indiana University, Dr. Brand was most well-known in the sports world for firing Indiana's revered hoops coach Bobby Knight, who had clashed once too often with the concept of civilized behavior. My dad once served on a committee with Dr. Brand and verifies that his overriding mission was to promote the importance of academics in the lives of college athletes.
The soccer players and small crowd of onlookers honor Dr. Brand with a moment of silence before Friday night's game. Then the whistle blows, and the two teams of scholar-athletes, none of whom will get rich from their playing abilities, compete fiercely for position and possession of the ball.
It's 2009; I'm fifty years old. By now, I've heard all the words. I drive over to the UW-Milwaukee campus on the East Side for a Friday afternoon soccer double-header, part of an early-season weekend tournament. The well-kept athletic field is nestled on campus amongst the classrooms, labs, and dorms. Admission is five dollars, and I find a seat in the bleachers. The play moves up and down the field. Assorted parents, kids, students, and soccer fans cheer on the two Wisconsin-based teams. Down two rows from me, the public address announcer reads an ad for the local sandwich franchise. "It's a Pepsi Panther corner kick!" he exclaims, followed by a Panther roar -- the same cheesy sound effect from the last UWM game that I'd watched, four years earlier. Several members of the nationally-ranked team from that era, now part of a local club team that won a championship, are introduced to the appreciative crowd at halftime. I munch on a bratwurst. It's a warm autumn evening under the lights.
This week, we heard of the passing of NCAA President Myles Brand. An RPI philosophy major and former President of Indiana University, Dr. Brand was most well-known in the sports world for firing Indiana's revered hoops coach Bobby Knight, who had clashed once too often with the concept of civilized behavior. My dad once served on a committee with Dr. Brand and verifies that his overriding mission was to promote the importance of academics in the lives of college athletes.
The soccer players and small crowd of onlookers honor Dr. Brand with a moment of silence before Friday night's game. Then the whistle blows, and the two teams of scholar-athletes, none of whom will get rich from their playing abilities, compete fiercely for position and possession of the ball.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Merci Beaucoup, Milwaukee!
I don't know much French beyond "Guy LaFleur", "Milles Bornes", and "German people - rubbish!" (That last one technically isn't French, but it is a direct quote from a Parisian bartender in 1978.) This doesn't stop me from thoroughly appreciating Milwaukee's Bastille Days, a French-themed street fair and cultural celebration held annually in mid-July.
Milwaukee's ethnic festivals, most of which follow the renowned Summerfest music festival on successive summer weekends, are themselves famous. Unlike its better-known fréres like Irishfest and Indian Summer, held at the controlled-access festival grounds on the lakefront, however, Bastille Days draws people to the open streets of East Town, an upscale area near Cathedral Square and the Milwaukee School of Engineering. (Cathedral Square also hosts the Thursday night Jazz in the Park series.)
A miniature, yet imposing, two-story Eiffel Tower stands on Kilbourn Avenue, the hub of the festivities. The music, the street performers, the food -- the food! -- and the arts and crafts in vendor booths are all present in abundance, but the real draw is the people-watching. From the lunchtime businessmen and women enjoying a French Caribbean specialty off the grill to the Saturday night party-goers, everyone observes and participates in the promenade as the casual, often-stylish crowd circulates around the streets. A true exercise in your basic Liberté, not to mention your Egalité and your Fraternité.
Chanteuse Robin Pluer's Edith Piaf-inspired performance and the hilarious French Waiter/Waitress Race top off the Bastille Days experience. It's the most relaxed and cheerful festival of the year, lending its joie de vivre to your esprit de corps. The perfect antidote for a case of Parisian bartender malaise. Vive la fête!
Milwaukee's ethnic festivals, most of which follow the renowned Summerfest music festival on successive summer weekends, are themselves famous. Unlike its better-known fréres like Irishfest and Indian Summer, held at the controlled-access festival grounds on the lakefront, however, Bastille Days draws people to the open streets of East Town, an upscale area near Cathedral Square and the Milwaukee School of Engineering. (Cathedral Square also hosts the Thursday night Jazz in the Park series.)
A miniature, yet imposing, two-story Eiffel Tower stands on Kilbourn Avenue, the hub of the festivities. The music, the street performers, the food -- the food! -- and the arts and crafts in vendor booths are all present in abundance, but the real draw is the people-watching. From the lunchtime businessmen and women enjoying a French Caribbean specialty off the grill to the Saturday night party-goers, everyone observes and participates in the promenade as the casual, often-stylish crowd circulates around the streets. A true exercise in your basic Liberté, not to mention your Egalité and your Fraternité.
Chanteuse Robin Pluer's Edith Piaf-inspired performance and the hilarious French Waiter/Waitress Race top off the Bastille Days experience. It's the most relaxed and cheerful festival of the year, lending its joie de vivre to your esprit de corps. The perfect antidote for a case of Parisian bartender malaise. Vive la fête!
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Black Roses and Red Tomatoes
Our ghost-like rehaunting of the Greater Milwaukee metro area continues as we seek out new worlds and new life forms in our erstwhile city. On a whim, we decided on Oakland Trattoria, one of our favorite roosting spots and eateries from back in the day, and found that the owner has recently subdivided more than half of its space into a new Irish pub, the Black Rose. The Gaelification of Milwaukee, host city of North America's largest Irish music and culture festival every August, continues unabated.
Never ones to pass up a new culinary experience involving corned beef, we seated ourselves on the newly painted, black-green side of the joint. I mourned the loss of the wall murals depicting brightly-colored garden tomatoes and potatoes -- duly captioned using Dan Quayle's spelling primer -- while wondering about the decision to create a faux-aged, cracked paint look on the Irish half. Surface prep is essential for avoiding that result, I had always been taught. There is also a hint of theme park artificiality due to the shared premises and close juxtaposition to the restaurant's Italian half. ("Dublin or Palermo tonight, folks? This way.") Nonetheless, the overall effect of the remodeling within its own context is mood-enhancing, and we enjoyed our hour-plus in one of the Black Rose's arch-top open booths.
The server offered us two menus apiece, useful for those considering a melting-pot meal. This could make for some interesting combinations: say, a light California Trio pizza with sun-dried tomatoes and a Guinness, or Wood-roasted Vegetable Lasagne and a Smithwicks. Beloved spousal unit was relieved that her favorite portabella mushroom soup was available on either side of the establishment. Truth be told, however, we made prosaic selections for lunch -- a Reuben and a burger -- in keeping with the basic, black decor. Essentials, like the compulsories in figure skating. We can now proceed to Level Two.
While it will be a challenge for the Black Rose's cuisine to match, say, the root soup at Milwaukee's County Clare -- even with the help of the Oakland Trattoria's portabella soup -- we look forward to testing this theory. You can never have too much Irish.
Never ones to pass up a new culinary experience involving corned beef, we seated ourselves on the newly painted, black-green side of the joint. I mourned the loss of the wall murals depicting brightly-colored garden tomatoes and potatoes -- duly captioned using Dan Quayle's spelling primer -- while wondering about the decision to create a faux-aged, cracked paint look on the Irish half. Surface prep is essential for avoiding that result, I had always been taught. There is also a hint of theme park artificiality due to the shared premises and close juxtaposition to the restaurant's Italian half. ("Dublin or Palermo tonight, folks? This way.") Nonetheless, the overall effect of the remodeling within its own context is mood-enhancing, and we enjoyed our hour-plus in one of the Black Rose's arch-top open booths.
The server offered us two menus apiece, useful for those considering a melting-pot meal. This could make for some interesting combinations: say, a light California Trio pizza with sun-dried tomatoes and a Guinness, or Wood-roasted Vegetable Lasagne and a Smithwicks. Beloved spousal unit was relieved that her favorite portabella mushroom soup was available on either side of the establishment. Truth be told, however, we made prosaic selections for lunch -- a Reuben and a burger -- in keeping with the basic, black decor. Essentials, like the compulsories in figure skating. We can now proceed to Level Two.
While it will be a challenge for the Black Rose's cuisine to match, say, the root soup at Milwaukee's County Clare -- even with the help of the Oakland Trattoria's portabella soup -- we look forward to testing this theory. You can never have too much Irish.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Ten Things I Know
1. How to spell and pronounce "Schenectady", "Schaghticoke", and "Rensselaer". Extra credit for "Oconomowoc" and "Fond du Lac".
2. The suburban backyard in Upstate N.Y. where a Volkswagen is buried.
3. The famous frozen custard stand in Milwaukee where MLB Commissioner Bud Selig eats his lunch daily (two hot dogs with relish).
4. How to make a killer French Onion soup; and how to get kicked out of a bar in Paris using only a French-English pocket dictionary.
5. The precise moment during the chorus of Gladys Knight's "Midnight Train to Georgia" when the Pips chime in with "Whoo-whoooo". (Hint: It's a beat later than you think.)
6. The B-52's song that requires both a cowbell and a door buzzer.
7. The family recipe for chocolate jumbles -- and the crucial baking tip.
8. How to get a two-minute penalty in adult rec hockey for "Unnecessary Roughness: Board Checking". (Hint: It's easy if you can't stop all that well.)
9. Where in Wheeling, West Virginia to get the best blueberry muffins on Easter Sunday.
10. How to sing "Rubber Ducky" ("Quietsche Entchen") in German.
2. The suburban backyard in Upstate N.Y. where a Volkswagen is buried.
3. The famous frozen custard stand in Milwaukee where MLB Commissioner Bud Selig eats his lunch daily (two hot dogs with relish).
4. How to make a killer French Onion soup; and how to get kicked out of a bar in Paris using only a French-English pocket dictionary.
5. The precise moment during the chorus of Gladys Knight's "Midnight Train to Georgia" when the Pips chime in with "Whoo-whoooo". (Hint: It's a beat later than you think.)
6. The B-52's song that requires both a cowbell and a door buzzer.
7. The family recipe for chocolate jumbles -- and the crucial baking tip.
8. How to get a two-minute penalty in adult rec hockey for "Unnecessary Roughness: Board Checking". (Hint: It's easy if you can't stop all that well.)
9. Where in Wheeling, West Virginia to get the best blueberry muffins on Easter Sunday.
10. How to sing "Rubber Ducky" ("Quietsche Entchen") in German.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
A Different Look
"The thing about the Redskins' defense is, they give you a different look every time," said John Madden on the NFL game broadcast.
Not long afterward, I started to notice other things that give you a different look every time.
On Christmas morning, the Yule log in the fireplace gives a different look every time we stop smiling at each other long enough to catch a glimpse of it. (Never mind that it's a video loop on our TV screen.)
Seen from Bradford Beach in Milwaukee, Lake Michigan can look indescribably brilliant or exceedingly gray. The water can be a shocking deep blue or a muddy brown, placid or choppy, rippling or white-capped, roaring or calm. The shoreline can be a seagull's paradise or caked with ice, the beach a haven for sunbathers or a foreboding no-man's-land of storm fences. The sky over the horizon can be featureless or filled with cottony clouds, wispy cirrus clouds, or thunderstorms, sometimes minutes apart. Sometimes you can't even see the horizon.
Lake Michigan gives you a different look every time.
Here in Denver, it's the Front Range of the Rockies that gives you a different look, its alternately snowcapped and barren black and purple peaks changing both daily and with the seasons under spectacular violet, pink, red, yellow, and blaze-orange cloud formations that reach to the high sky.
In New York, it's the Hudson and East Rivers, flowing under commuter bridges to New York Harbor. In Boston, it's skulls being rowed on the Charles River; up by Dartmouth, it's the Connecticut River; near my Upstate New York hometown, it's the Mohawk River; all changing constantly, always the same. "All-ll this time/The river flowed", as Sting's song lyric puts it. The rivers give you a different look every time.
In Washington, D.C., lots of things give you a different look every time. The stately Potomac River; the reflections of the monuments off the Tidal Pool; the exhibits at the Smithsonian; the ballroom dancers at Glen Echo Park; the insane traffic patterns around Crystal City; the crystal lattice that forms from the branches and twigs in Rock Creek Park after an ice storm.
From January 20th forward, the White House will give us a different look, too. It's about time.
Not long afterward, I started to notice other things that give you a different look every time.
On Christmas morning, the Yule log in the fireplace gives a different look every time we stop smiling at each other long enough to catch a glimpse of it. (Never mind that it's a video loop on our TV screen.)
Seen from Bradford Beach in Milwaukee, Lake Michigan can look indescribably brilliant or exceedingly gray. The water can be a shocking deep blue or a muddy brown, placid or choppy, rippling or white-capped, roaring or calm. The shoreline can be a seagull's paradise or caked with ice, the beach a haven for sunbathers or a foreboding no-man's-land of storm fences. The sky over the horizon can be featureless or filled with cottony clouds, wispy cirrus clouds, or thunderstorms, sometimes minutes apart. Sometimes you can't even see the horizon.
Lake Michigan gives you a different look every time.
Here in Denver, it's the Front Range of the Rockies that gives you a different look, its alternately snowcapped and barren black and purple peaks changing both daily and with the seasons under spectacular violet, pink, red, yellow, and blaze-orange cloud formations that reach to the high sky.
In New York, it's the Hudson and East Rivers, flowing under commuter bridges to New York Harbor. In Boston, it's skulls being rowed on the Charles River; up by Dartmouth, it's the Connecticut River; near my Upstate New York hometown, it's the Mohawk River; all changing constantly, always the same. "All-ll this time/The river flowed", as Sting's song lyric puts it. The rivers give you a different look every time.
In Washington, D.C., lots of things give you a different look every time. The stately Potomac River; the reflections of the monuments off the Tidal Pool; the exhibits at the Smithsonian; the ballroom dancers at Glen Echo Park; the insane traffic patterns around Crystal City; the crystal lattice that forms from the branches and twigs in Rock Creek Park after an ice storm.
From January 20th forward, the White House will give us a different look, too. It's about time.
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